


Sweet September

by cadenzamuse



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Get Together, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 21:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13912917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadenzamuse/pseuds/cadenzamuse
Summary: Kent is mostly grateful that Jeff is a giant because it means Kent has a walking umbrella, as long as he stays in Jeff’s shadow.His back is sticky and his hair is starting to get moist under his Aces cap, and he may look like he’s trying to reinvent tetherball (with Jeff as the pole), but this is the best he’s felt in a long time.





	Sweet September

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taggianto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taggianto/gifts).



> Huge thanks to stultiloquentia and jamesiee for betaing! Thanks also to thorya, who endured a minimum of two hours physically enacting positioning because HOW ARE HUMAN BODIES, and to taggianto, who not only prompted me but wrote several of the chirps. Shout out to garden of succulents for the headcanon of Jeff's last name. (Yes, I know Swoops = Troy != Jeff. Canon? I don't know her.) 
> 
> Prompt was "Parswoops + ice cream" from my forfeit minific offer on the Parse Posi Discord. Snaps to the whole Parse Posi Posse for handholding, cheerleading, and rousing discussions of what constitutes a sandwich from which I stole shamelessly.
> 
> There really is a Sweet Addiction in downtown Vegas; I have never been there. Anything I got right about it is completely coincidental.

Kent would never admit it to anyone, but he likes that Jeff is so much taller than him.  He may be good enough friends with Jack and Bitty now to joke that Jack has a type, but he’s pretty sure that if they knew about him and Jeff, they would be chirping him right back.  Not that there’s anything to chirp back about, of course. Just, maybe Kent would like there to be.

 

Right now, as they’re walking down the pavement, September sunshine putting a heat haze in the air, Kent is mostly grateful that Jeff is a giant because it means Kent has a walking umbrella, as long as he stays in Jeff’s shadow.  Jeff has given Kent several funny looks at the way Kent keeps dodging around him--it’s hard to stay west of someone at all times, okay?--but Kent is gonna keep up the joke until Swoops calls him on it, at least.

 

Kent’s back is sticky and his hair is starting to get moist under his Aces cap, and he may look like he’s trying to invent the sport of shadow-basket-tetherball (with Jeff as the pole), but this is the best he’s felt in a long time.  He’s rested, he’s practically vibrating from preseason energy, and best of all, he’s  _ home _ .  Kent may dutifully leave Vegas every summer to go train in the Great White North, but the truth is he doesn’t really mind the 100° summer temperatures: there’s this thing called “air conditioning,” and 100° highs mean perfect 80° nights and dawns.   What he does really mind is being away from his team and his city for three months at a time.

 

But that’s a passing thought: he’s home, he’s here, Jeff is laughing at him and getting up in his face like a basketball star as Kent tries to dodge around and into his shadow again.  Kent shoves up into Jeff’s space, trying to duck under his arm. He ends up hipchecking him at the last second to make a little space. 

 

“Foul!” Jeff says.

 

“Not in hockey,” Kent replies, and hipchecks him again.

 

“And they say you don’t like to get your hands dirty,” Jeff says.

 

“Uh, Jeff,” Kent says, “Literally no one has ever said that.”

 

"Oh, you know so well, huh? How many times have you dropped your gloves in your career? Twice?"

 

"You know as well as I do it's been five fucking times, Swoops," Kent says, shoulder-checking Jeff for good measure.

  
"Atlanta doesn't count," Jeff says.  He absorbs the hits with ease, his greater mass and slightly crouched basketball stance keeping him steady.   
  


"The fuck it doesn't."  Kent is going to get Jeff off balance if it kills him, so he bodychecks Jeff over and over.  Or tries to--the net result is that Kent overbalances after the second check and topples into Jeff.  Jeff grabs Kent’s sides to steady them.   
  


“All right, all right, Parson, you win, you’re a total goon.”

 

“What do I win?” Kent asks.

 

In point of fact, Kent is pretty sure he’s already been given his prize, up in Jeff’s space, feeling his body heat, looking up miles of sweaty tank top and perfectly tanned arms to Jeff’s soft, floppy hair and his lively, sweet face.  

 

Aaaaand now it’s awkward.  “Ice cream!” Kent declares.  “Nevermind, you’re terrible at prizes, I win ice cream.  You’re buying.” He ducks away.

 

They head in the direction of Sweet Addiction at a stroll, which is the fastest they can stand to go in this heat.  As they enter the shop, the contrast between the air conditioning and the hot pavement outside is enough to make Kent shiver.

 

“Cold?” Jeff asks.

 

“Nah, I’m fine, just give me a second,” Kent says--or, he starts to say, but Jeff has stepped in close to him and dropped one of his long (perfect) arms over Kent’s shoulders.  Kent is pretty sure his heart stops for a second.

 

“You know you play  _ ice _ hockey, right?” Jeff says, and it’s a totally different experience hearing him talk while pressed against his side, low and rumbly.

 

“Yeah, fuck you,” Kent says.  He has to remind himself to exhale, like his body thinks Jeff will never stop touching him if he keeps holding his breath.

 

But Jeff just scoops Kent forward with his arm, casually turning Kent towards the cash register with the pressure of his fingertips on Kent’s shoulder.  Kent should shrug him off, and he will. In a minute. Really.

 

“What do you want?” Jeff asks.  

 

“Three scoops in a bowl, please,” Kent replies, raising his voice so the cashier can hear him.  “Uh...mocha almond fudge, green tea, and...ooh! coconut pineapple, that sounds good.”

 

“What the fuck, Parson?” Jeff says, squeezing Kent tighter against him and turning to stare in his face.

 

“What?” Kent asks, then adds, “Order for the nice lady, Swoboda.”

 

Jeff snorts, and Kent feels Jeff’s fingers twitch on his shoulder, the quick shudder of his obliques against Kent’s side.  It might be the most intimate thing Kent has ever felt.

 

“A sandwich with chocolate chip cookies and cookie dough in the middle,” Jeff says to the cashier.

 

“What the fuck?" Kent deadpans.  "That’s literally just three chocolate chip cookies stacked on top of each other.”

 

“No it’s not, there’s totally, like, non-cookie dough stuff in cookie dough ice cream.  Like, milk! And uh, vanilla! Or something.”

 

The cashier is half-laughing, half-rolling her eyes: a professional who is professionally  _ not _ telling them to get the fuck on with it.

 

He reaches for his wallet, realizing belatedly that his arm has been hanging awkwardly in front of Jeff’s hip this whole time.  The motion pushes the two of them apart slightly.

 

“Uh, I’ll get yours?”  Kent turns to check that Jeff’s okay with that.  

 

Jeff’s hand brushes across Kent’s shoulders to let go--then down the line of his arm, coming to rest in a gentle squeeze on his wrist. “I’ve got it,” Jeff says.   

 

Kent’s brain shorts out.  Jeff’s gaze suddenly feels far too warm.  “No, uh, that’s okay!” he forces out, jerking away.  He fixes his gaze very firmly on the cashier as he finishes the motion to his pocket.  He thinks he’s making an appropriately friendly, normal-person smile, but he can’t be sure.  His face feels funny. “I guess we’re paying separately,” he hears Jeff say.

 

Buying his ice cream feels like a series of interminable steps: take card out of wallet, hand to far-too-knowing cashier, wait, smile, make polite comment, take card back, smooth receipt down on counter, scrawl something that is probably not actually recognizable as his signature.  He’s already walked three steps towards a table before he remembers he needs to put his wallet back in his pocket.

 

“Yo, we gotta get the ice cream first,” Jeff says, and Kent pivots back toward the counter.

 

“Right,” he says.  “Haha. Sorry.” He finally meets Jeff’s eyes.  He knows he needs to look at their hands, make sure not to brush their fingers together as he takes the giant bowl of ice cream he doesn’t even want any more, but he can’t stop watching Jeff’s face.

 

“It’s okay, Parser,” Jeff says.  “Easy mistake.” His smile is tilted.

 

“No, no,  _ I’m sorry _ ,” Kent insists.  He waits until Jeff steps back toward the table before moving himself.  

 

“It’s cool,” Jeff says again.  “How’s your monstrosity?”

 

Kent forces himself to take a tiny bite, but the ice cream is--actually, really good.  He takes two more deliberate bites, one careful hit of each flavor before seeing how they taste together.   “Holy shit,” he says. “Jeff, you gotta try this. Oh wait, right, fuck, Mr. Cookies with Cookie Dough. Uh.  No, seriously, whatever, I know you’re an ice cream heathen, try it anyway.” He shoves his bowl in Jeff’s direction.

 

Jeff smiles again, and this one seems less pasted on.   But it’s still not the right smile, not the soft amused one that hints at the start of crow’s feet.  Not the smile that Jeff has smiled  _ right at Kent _ , always, the one that Kent wants Jeff to  _ keep _ smiling at him for approximately, oh, forever, and somehow Kent has always missed it because he is so. fucking. clueless.

 

Well.  He can fix that.  Probably.

 

“What do you think?” he asks.  “I mean, I know they don’t seem like they go together and the mocha was possibly a mistake, but when you find a good thing you should have as much of it as possible, you know?”  He pauses. “Uh, to be clear, the ice cream is a metaphor and look just--” He grabs Jeff’s hand, jams their fingers together. His heart is pounding. “This is what you meant, right?”

 

There is a half-second where Kent is afraid he’s going to have a heart attack, and then Jeff cracks up.  “Oh my god, dumbass, yes.  _ This _ ”--he waggles his eyebrows--”is what I meant.  The pineapple can live happily ever after with the fucking almond.  The eagle has landed. My hovercraft is full of eels.” He tugs Kent towards him, grinning.  “And now, for the benefit of the extremely slow among us, I am going to put my arm around you.”  He drops it with exaggerated slowness, but his arm is firm as he pulls Kent against him. Kent wraps his own arm around Jeff’s back with equal firmness. 

 

“Shut up, Swoops, you know what I meant,” Kent replies.  “Like, I like you and stuff. Mushy stuff.” He stops. “Also you are never, ever telling anyone about this or I will break up with you so fast.  I’ve got a reputation--”

  
By the time they stop grinning at each other for long enough to eat, Kent thinks he’s going to have a bowl of brown sludge.  That’s okay. At this point, he’s not  _ entirely  _ positive? But he’s pretty sure it was never about the ice cream in the first place.


End file.
